


The Teapot

by DesperatelyObsessional



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Everyone knows where this is going, Fluff, Genie! John, I'm terrible, John is done with the genie gig, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Sherlock is confused, Still pretty cracky tho, Three Wishes, butchering of aladdin, is that tag even necessary?, not as cracky as it sounds, seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 13:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11314158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesperatelyObsessional/pseuds/DesperatelyObsessional
Summary: Aladdin had a lamp.Sherlock has a teapot.In which John is a genie and Sherlock is confused.





	The Teapot

**Author's Note:**

> I re-watched Aladdin last night, and that "you've never had a friend like me" song, put this idea in my head, and I just couldn't get it out.
> 
> Let me know if you'd like me to continue with it.

_Definitely a fake_ , Sherlock decided, as he flipped the teapot around in his hands; the insipid, elderly elitist had pressed it into his hands with a grateful smile and a warbled insist.

“It’s a Persian 4th dynasty piece, please keep it Mr. Holmes- for all your help.”

Forgetting the fact that no one just gave away 600 year old artifacts to the well-dressed addict who –rudely- explained exactly how your husband had killed your sister for the rights to a rather mediocre estate, the teapot’s shape and style was clearly from Victorian England, several hundred years after it’s supposed time period.

At the time he had just put it in his bag, eager to get away from the Duchess’s quivering voice and friendly hands, but, now back in 221 B, he had the chance to finally give it a good look over.

The teapot was pale blue, with heavy porcelain, and shiny gold swirls and flowers scrawled across its surface.

 _It really is quite realistic. I should find the forger, make him owe me a favor,_ Sherlock mused, as he rubbed a finger across the smooth surface.

After all, there were many things one could do with a very good forger. Documents, License Plates, Paintings. Not to mention, Sherlock needed every weapon the arsenal for his unending campaign against Mycroft’s insufferable meddling.

A twitch in his fingers caused Sherlock to glance down at the porcelain in his hands. The teapot had shook; he was certain of it.

Sherlock squinted at his hands, trying to figure how a teapot could have moved. _Perhaps a mechanism in the porcelain, reacting to-_

Then, again, the teapot shook, quite violently; Sherlock looked at his shaking hands with wide eyes. Not suspecting the sudden gain in weight, the pot slipped through his fingers, and hit the floor without breaking.

As if the teapot was experiencing a seizure and contacted rabies simultaneously- _quite an achievement for an inanimate object,_ Sherlock had to admit- the teapot rolled around the floor with mint- green smoke rising from its spout.

Much too familiar with dangerous gases from his many years in experimental laboratories and drug dens, Sherlock had immediately pulled his shirt up to his mouth, as he stepped closer to the animate teapot, watching with a slack jaw and unbelieving eyes as the green smoke gathered into the shape of a man.

A blinding flash of light lit the flat that had Sherlock throwing a hand over his eyes.

Once the warmth left his eyelids, Sherlock opened his watery eyes, finding his entire grasp of physical matter and physics had been tossed out the window and snogged to death.

There was a man standing there, amongst the smoke, looking at him with an irritated frown; his skin was pale and translucent, making it difficult to see where he ended and the smoke started.

“Oh. No. Nope,” the enigma of physics groaned, as Sherlock observed with a detached numbness.

“I swear if you’re a dictator…”

Sherlock stared; the man appearing more solid by the second.

It looked like a normal man, albeit poorly dressed. Someone Sherlock would have walked past on the street with little more than an internal scoff at the poor choice of jumper. With a short stature, frumpy clothes, and military posture, the man’s entire life story seemed to be scrawled across his body.

Not worth the second look that made Sherlock notice the details. The unnaturally vibrant blue of his eyes; the smooth, unblemished hands that had never seen manual labor, the length of his ashy, blonde hair that should have been closer to military standard considering the recentness of his tan.

But it was the second look that showed all the little things that made absolutely no sense, and Sherlock would have been impressed with the well-constructed camouflage, if his thoughts weren’t on a consistent loop.

_Not possible. Not possible. Not possible._

“Well? Are you? Certainly have the cheekbones of one. Pointy and attention demanding,” the enigma questioned in a smooth London accent, putting his hand on a popped hip.

_I think it’s talking to me…_

Blink.

_Am I a dictator?_

Sherlock tries to remember if he has any poorly treated countries under his command, while he continues to inspect the intruder.

Unable to recall anything past his shock, Sherlock robotically shook his head.

“What? Do you prefer a different term? Despot? General? You aren’t fooling me with cheekbones like that, mate. I don’t work with politicians.” It's tone was equally biting and accusatory, and Sherlock found himself feeling vaguely guilty.

As if realizing he wasn’t going to get anywhere with the stupid man that couldn’t stop staring, the short, baggy jumpered thing began looking around, “No, I suppose not. Much too poor to be anyone important… No offense.” The last part was tossed over his shoulder like a consolation prize for the beauty pageant contestant who’d forgotten their make-up at home: insincere and altogether insulting.

It was that feeling of indignation about his poor financial situation that finally broke through his shock.

“What are you? How did you appear out of the smoke like that? I don’t see any mechanisms.” Sherlock asked, his voice accusing and sharp.

With a disbelieving look, the genie turned around, “You’re kidding right?”

There’s a pause where both extraordinary men stared at each other, trying to figure the other one out. It’s informational in the way that many unsuccessful things are.

_“Oh.”_

A look of startled realization flashed across the blonde man’s face, and Sherlock absently noted that the expression was rather cute.

The stranger winced, backed up, and grimaced. With a completely changed demeanor, he dissipated the remaining smoke with a wave of a hand, before clasping his hands together coupled with an apologetic smile.

“I’ve made an utter mess of this, haven’t I? It’s just been quite a long time since someone found me by accident. So, quick explanation-" he said, as he threw up jazz hands, "I'm a genie."


End file.
